Unscripted (22 page)

“
Very,
Mona.”

I hurried down the hall to my bedroom. Now what? Was I really going to stay in Moreno Valley as Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell had suggested? Ew, what a thought. And I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right, either. Maybe I could hole up at the Chateau Marmont instead . . . if I wasn’t afraid that I’d run into one of my mom’s thousand and one friends who’d rat me out. Mona may have been retired, but she retained all her ties to Hollywood, and she would definitely find out if I were still around. I knew I finally had to take Bea’s advice and get out of town for a while.

While I was mulling over the mind-boggling possibility that Bea was psychic—and trying to figure out how many suitcases to pack—Jamie came into my bedroom.

“And I definitely want a word with
you,
” I snapped.

“Yeah, sorry about the furniture and all.”

“What are you doing to my house?”

“Nothing . . . permanent.”

I flung a fistful of underwear into an open bag. “Oh, that’s reassuring. What are you up to, Tompkins? Do I need to have the police put the place on their routine drive-by schedule?”

“They do that?”

“Are you sure you’ve spent
any
time at all in L.A.?” I stopped packing and demanded, “Is it illegal?”

He gave me his best innocent look in return. “Is
what
illegal?”

“Oh God, it’s worse than I thought.”

“Are you really leaving?”

“I am indeed. Mona’s in the area, I leave the area. You know how it is.”

“Mona’s not so bad—”

I came up out of the depths of my closet with several pairs of shoes. They were all essentials, I was pretty sure. Including the jewel-accented gladiator sandals. “Oh yes, she is.”

“Only in your eyes.”

“Ask the masses of cast and crew members she tormented over the years. Not to mention all the household help she’s gone through in her lifetime. In fact, give me a call when the nurse at her beach house runs screaming. I estimate it’ll be about three hours from Mona’s arrival by limo.” I paused in my packing. Was that why she wanted me around? Because hired nurses could walk out, but I couldn’t?

“That’s not fair . . .”

“Look, just because you’re her favorite—”

“I like Mona!”

“Good thing too. She’s calling you again,” I muttered, as Mona’s voice drifted in from the living room. “Probably needs more mammoth-poop water.”

“More what? Er, coming, Mona!” he called, then turned back to me. “I still need to talk with you.”

I yanked open a dresser drawer, rooted through a bunch of tank tops for my favorite ones. “I don’t have time right now.”

“But—”

“Jamie! I just don’t! I have to go.” He looked traumatized, and I figured it had to be about money again. As usual, his agonized expression tormented my old bleeding heart. I’d provided for Jamie, off and on, whenever he needed a financial or material boost, ever since I started making my own living. Mainly because I remembered how hellish it was when Mona kicked his father to the curb and got away without paying him a red cent in alimony, even though Ralph was, like his son, long on charm but always short on cash.

Sighing, I said, “Look, just . . . take whatever you need, all right?”

“Whatever . . . ?”

“Whatever. I mean it. What’s mine is yours, you know that. But right now, I’ve gotta go.”

Mona called again, and with one last disbelieving look at me, Jamie rushed back to her. I finished stuffing an odd selection of clothing into my luggage, then rolled the suitcases down the hall and shoved them into the back hatch of my Cayenne.

I made my escape while Jamie was busy entertaining Mona. Cowardly? Most definitely. But I just couldn’t hang around a minute longer.

* * *

I got out of my SUV and stared up at the blinking neon sign of the Super Duper Nine Motor Court. The place’s slogan was evidently “One Louder”—at least judging by the noises coming from the parking lot and the rooms overlooking it: car stereos, laughter of people around a portable barbecue, slamming doors. It was still hot, but without the searing glare of the sun, the air was a bit more tolerable—except that it was thick with the ozone from the day and the exhaust of countless cars. So much for emission control. Somewhere behind me a siren blared as a police car or ambulance zoomed down the street.

It was past 10 p.m., but I was still looking for a place to crash. I had barreled as fast as I could out of L.A. and into Moreno Valley, then I had to drive all over the place looking for a hotel. I’d found out pretty quickly, thanks to my handy “find lodgings” app, that there were no luxury hotels anywhere nearby. So I started with the top-rated of the chain hotels, only to learn that they were all booked. Apparently there was some huge convention up the road in Riverside, and Moreno Valley’s hotels had taken the overflow. All but the Super Duper Nine Motor Court, I hoped. And
that
thought filled me with a sick sort of dread; I was so desperate that I
wanted
this place to have a vacancy?

I hesitated with my hand on the office door. I could give this up. I could just go back home—
my
home, even though it was currently inhabited, and being decimated, by my stepbrother, and my mother was fairly close by for weeks, if not longer. The thought made me shudder, but I could put up with it, couldn’t I?

And then I recalled the reproachful look Mason gave me when I was repeatedly late for class. I hated to see that disapproving expression on his face; I vastly preferred to see him laughing and smiling.

Okay, never mind how I preferred to see him. The point was that he was right—if I kept driving from L.A., there was no way I was ever going to be on time. Something was always going to delay me—either my own ineptitude, or the traffic, or both. And for some reason, I desperately wanted to prove to him that I could do this; I needed him to take me seriously. Maybe our last argument had affected me even more than I thought; I truly wanted to do this teaching thing right.

And if that meant toughing it out at what was evidently one of the worst motels on the planet, then so be it. It would be a small price to pay.

* * *

As was the cost of the room, and thank goodness for that.

“No check. Cash.”

“I’ve got three different credit cards—take your pick.”

“No credit card. Cash.”

I stared at the lumpy man in the flowered shirt behind the counter. “What kind of place doesn’t take credit cards?”

“This kind. No credit. Cash.”

“All right, all right . . .” I surreptitiously dug around in my wallet, trying to shield the contents from him, as well as from the dude in the filthy jeans who was hanging out on the ratty sofa a few steps away. I glanced over and was a little relieved to realize I didn’t have to worry about him, as his eyes were going in two different directions, neither of them pointing my way. “How much?”

“Forty-five.”

“I’ve got forty-two.”

“Forty-five.”

“Come on, man, give me a break.”

“Forty-five.”

Growling deep in my throat, I rooted around in the change compartment. “Forty-two . . . seventy-three.”

“Forty—”

“Forty-five. Yeah, I heard. Wait a minute.”

I retreated to my SUV, which was attracting way too much attention from the other motel guests, and collected every quarter, every dime, every penny from every cupholder and crevice in the dashboard, then headed back inside, making sure to lock my car first. The arming
bip
seemed unnaturally loud as it bounced off the building, and the folks in the parking lot looked at me accusingly, as though offended that I didn’t trust them. Well, too bad.

I slapped my money down on the counter. “Forty-five.”

Lumpy sorted out all my change with a thick forefinger. “Forty-four eighty-eight.”

“Come
on!
”

The skinny guy in the filthy jeans, who had fallen over sideways on the couch while I was outside, started giggling. I wasn’t sure if he was laughing at me or something going on in his own reality.

“Dude, please.”

He considered for a moment, then shrugged. I had a feeling I was going to get the room next to the ice machine.

Chapter 13

I was on time for class the next day. I looked like I’d been run over on the way there, but I was on time. I knew I wasn’t looking my best when I walked into class and the students who were there already halted their conversations and stared at me, open-mouthed.

Mason bustled in, put his messenger bag on the desk chair, and said, “’Morning, everyone. And Ms. Sinclair, nice to—” Then he stopped dead and stared as openly as the kids. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” I growled. Sleepless, jumpy, with a tic in my left eyelid, and starving to boot, since I had no money for food and didn’t have time to find an ATM in my mad rush to get out of the ghetto that was my new neighborhood, but otherwise, just dandy.

“I dunno, Ms. Sinclair,” Elias said, shaking his head worriedly. “You look like you partied pretty hard last night.”

If only,
I thought. “Thank you, Elias,” I muttered. “Your concern is noted.”

“No, really,” Brandon pressed. “What happened?”

Mason recovered from his shock and got all professor-y again. “I’m sure that’s Ms. Sinclair’s business, not ours—”

But I didn’t want the class to think I was some idiot addicted to the sort of substance that sent my buddy on the motel office sofa into orbit, plus I wanted to get a dig in at Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell, so I blurted out, “I took Professor Mitchell’s advice and decided to stay in the area, so I could be close to school.” I hesitated for a dramatic beat before dropping the bomb. “So I got a room at the Super Duper Nine Motor Court.”

Trina walked in at that moment; at my news, she let her book bag slide to the floor with a thud. “Seriously?!”

I nodded, perversely pleased at the horrified looks on everyone’s faces.

“Ms. Sinclair, that’s messed up.”

“I have since found that out, Trina.”

“No, really, you can’t stay there.”

“Every other hotel was booked.”

“Well shit, you can stay on the couch in my dorm suite. My roommates won’t mind.”

Dear God, what a choice—crashing on a couch or staying in a fleabag motel. “Thanks, Trina, really, but I’ll be fine—”

“My cousin got rolled in that parking lot, Ms. Sinclair. You
so
will not be fine,” Elias said.

“I can handle it.” I didn’t tell them that I’d gotten about three hours of sleep, total, the entire night, and that wasn’t about to change if I continued to stay there. Between freezing—I slept on top of the bed, as there was no way I was getting between those sheets—and being jolted awake repeatedly by slamming doors, thuds coming from the other side of the adjoining wall, an ongoing screaming match in the parking lot between a resident and his, er, evening companion of the female persuasion, and, yes, the regularly scheduled rumbling of the ice machine, the absolute last thing I intended to do was spend one more minute at the Super Duper Nine.

But I wasn’t going to tell them that right now, because I was enjoying the look of remorse on Mason’s face as I lapped up the kids’ sympathy.

“Isn’t it about time to start class?” I asked innocently.

Mason shook his head, turned to the students, and worked hard to start the day’s lecture. I smiled to myself and tried to ignore my rumbling stomach and the caffeine-withdrawal headache threatening to mushroom into a migraine. That look on his face sure made it all worth it—almost.

* * *

After class, I scooted out the door as quickly as possible. I wasn’t avoiding the students, or Mason—I just really, really needed something to eat. And some caffeine. At the student center, I slid my card into the ATM and punched in my PIN number, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other as I waited for the next prompt. When the withdrawal screen came up, I chose a hundred dollars.

But instead of the money shooting out of the slot, a notice came up on the screen: “Transaction could not be completed at this time.” And I got a slip with nothing but “Transaction canceled” on it. I sighed and tried again. Same result. Maybe the machine didn’t have enough money in it. I tried a third time, choosing just twenty dollars. The same thing happened.

“Stupid machine,” I muttered. I threw away all the blank receipts, shoved my bank card back into my wallet, and pulled out my Visa.

I ran into Mason in line at the coffee counter. He turned to me, still looking worried, and I started to feel a bit guilty about playing the sympathy card in class earlier.